Change ringers sound giant bells with precision

Learning the Ropes

My wife invited a colleague to the College of Charleston to give a lecture. Jerry stayed at the faculty house on Glebe Street. One evening, diligently at work preparing his materials, he heard bells, incessant bells, ringing and ringing, fast, in sequence, the order changing in regular intervals.

'What is this?' he wondered. At first, he thought the sound was in his head. Jerry thought he was going nuts. Then he remembered mystery novelist Dorothy L. Sayers' 'The Nine Tailors' in which the murderer is discovered to be the bells themselves.

At dinner the next evening, he turned to me with a question: 'Hey, you're the Faith and Values guy ... ' I guess he assumes I'm fluent in such esotery as Gnosticism, epistemological individualism, the differences between a Unitarian and agnostic and the manner in which a set of very large bells hung in a church tower are made to sound. 'Have you ever heard of change ringing?'

Have I ever heard of change ringing? Did Horton hear a Who?

Dabbler that I am (aren't all reporters?), I am always on the lookout for the next opportunity, the 'new new thing' that will distract me a little, entertain me, intrigue me, move the spirit, stimulate the mind.

So, naturally, I had to try my hand at change ringing, the art of sounding bells in a bell tower according to tried-and-true formulas, relying on the expertise of a fellowship of bell ringers easily mesmerized, similarly prone to mind-bending, addictive pursuits, especially pursuits that require physical effort and cooperation, that demand just the right touch, that sound good.

Pull, pull!

Change ringing does sound good. The typical bell tower in the United States is attached to an Episcopal Church (with a few exceptions) and has eight tuned bells that form a diatonic scale. Some towers have 10 (the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., for example) or even 12 bells (Trinity Wall Street).

Invariably, the bells — giant instruments cast in a foundry — are procured from England. Many are very old. They are mounted in a manner that enables them to rest in the upright position and turn a little more than 360 degrees when rung. A rope is attached to a big wheel in such a way that pulling it gets the bell going in both directions.

A 'stay,' or rigid piece of wood, projects from the bell's crossbeam and reaches the 'slider,' another piece of wood fixed at one end but able to slide a little to and fro at the other end. A properly struck bell has just enough momentum to get it back into the upright position with each pull of the rope. The stay reaches the slider, preventing the metal tonnage of the bell from continuing in the same direction. Another pull on the rope and the bell comes 'round the other way.

David Porter, tower captain at Grace Episcopal Church, is teaching me the hand stroke. The hand stroke and back stroke together cause a complete two-dong ring. A circle of practiced ringers can achieve 'perfect striking' with even and orderly strokes. The rings of the bells overhead should be evenly spaced. It requires concentration and adroit maneuvering.

Porter tells me to extend my arms all the way downward, ending the hand stroke with a gentle flick of the wrists. Standing before me, he assumes responsibility for the back stroke, reaching up to grasp the padded part of the rope and pulling it down with a firm tug. Then I take over.

It's a tricky business, harder than it looks. You've got to visualize the mechanism overhead, feel the movement of the heavy bell, pull and release the rope at precisely the right moment. And that's just to learn the basics. Eventually, the ringer joins the circle to strike his or her bell in perfect sequence and to obey the laws of called changes and lengthy ringing 'methods.'

Towers of Charleston

Charleston is blessed. It is home to four change-ringing bell towers, more than any other city in North America. The Holy City's bells are a magnet for ringers around the world. Or, rather, they are the iron to which the magnets are drawn. The ringers come. They peal. Then they go out and socialize.

They do so ritualistically. 'Ring Around Charleston' is an annual three-day, end-of-February event drawing some of the best and/or most enthusiastic ringers to our Anglicanized shores. They come to pull the bells at St. Michael's, the Cathedral of St. Luke and St. Paul, Grace and Stella Maris Catholic Church on Sullivan's Island.

Roger and Kathleen Baldwin came from Watford, England, just outside London. They were in Charleston for a good stretch during a three-city, three-week 'ringing trip.' (Yes, dear reader, there are those among us who travel for the purpose of insinuating themselves into other countries' church towers and pulling hard on ropes.) They visit regularly.

Kathleen started ringing in 1950. Roger began his obsession in 1953. They are, it's safe to say, experts. Kathleen is the No. 2 peal-ringing female worldwide. That means there's only one female who reportedly has rung more peals than her. A 'peal' is a sequence of 5,040 consecutive changes on eight or more bells (at least 5,000 changes on fewer than eight bells). It can take many days to go the full circuit, with all permutations, on a set of 10. In England, ringers know of about 5,000 peals. In the United States, only 50 or so are practiced.

Roger is very good at calling changes: 'Three to two! Three lead!' (The 'lead' is the highest-pitched treble bell; the tenor is the lowest.) 'Five to four! Four to three! Follow me. If I'm following three, you can't be.'

And so it goes.

'We always enjoy coming to ring over here,' Roger says.

'Now, we come over to see our friends as much as to ring,' Kathleen says.

And drink beer.

Method to the madness

Grandsire. Stedman. Plain Bob Major. These are common 'methods' among the many patterns of changes ringers learn to love. They are written out as rows of numbers, but all it takes is an attentive ear, focused eye and concentration for a ringer to find his place in the order of things.

A full peal or 'extent' has been achieved when all the bells are rung in every order possible without repeats.

Arlene Southerland is the tower captain at Stella Maris, which has one of the lightest bell towers in North America. Light bells require more finesse. 'They tend to come down on you faster,' Southerland says.

The National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., has the heaviest set of bells, ranging from 608 to 3,588 pounds.

Stella Maris is training six new ringers. Southerland says it takes about six hours of practice ringing, never mind changes and methods, before one gets the hang of it. Six months before one can ring for a service.

At first, it's like riding a bike, she says. 'It's really up to them.' Later, it's like riding a horse. 'You've got to get the feel.'

The enterprise requires much patience, she says. And it's easy to get discouraged.

So I ask her for a lesson. I am not done dabbling in change ringing.

I pull on the rope, trying hard to follow instructions. It's just a rope, I think. It goes up and down.

'Reach those hands up!' Southerland says. 'Throw it down here. Keep your hands together. The bell has to go all the way around.'

I pull too late and the rope goes spastic, knocking me in the face, tearing through my hands toward the hole in the ceiling. Southerland grabs it skillfully and takes control of the swinging bell.

I keep trying, under the watchful eye of my teacher. Little by little, I begin to get the feel of it, that sneaky little bell quick in its swing, occasionally jiggling the rope out of my hands.

It's so rhythmic, regular, mathematical, physical. I begin to understand the appeal of the peal.

The Baldwins have showed up to this learning session, too. I ask Roger why he likes change ringing so much. It's challenging, he says. It's a team effort. 'It has a satisfying result when you do it well.' And there's the social element.

'In a 10-mile radius of where I live, there are 20 or 30 towers,' he says.

After a satisfying quarter peal, the ringers would head off for a pint of room-temperature bitter, Roger Baldwin says. Sitting around the table, they would chat about methods and madness, taking turns.

Reach Adam Parker at 937-5902 or aparker@postandcourier.com.

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